


what to do when your best friend loses the wtf

by amfiguree



Category: American Idol RPF, Tennis RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-10
Updated: 2014-01-10
Packaged: 2018-01-08 05:36:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1128955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amfiguree/pseuds/amfiguree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>this is really fluffy and pointless and kind of terrible, but i don't even care. in my mind, rafa/cook has already been labelled one of those verses that could be epic. plus it made me feel better about rafa losing. for pixiebeanz and daisiesdaily on livejournal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	what to do when your best friend loses the wtf

"is bad?" rafa says, when he finally picks up  
  
(when you finally dial through, instead of pussying out on the second ring like you've been doing for the past fifteen minutes)  
  
and you bite back the reflexive _no_ to say, "i know we've talked about the right way to answer a phone, man, and that's not it."  
  
"is bad," rafa says, decisively, and you can almost picture the nod that comes with it. "you call, is bad."  
  
"what," you demand, even as you reach for the remote control. rafa's face, set in frustration and a steely sort of resignation, frozen on your tv set, winks into blackness with one little click. "i can't be calling because i want to spend the first evening of the off-season celebrating with a friend?"  
  
static crackles over the line for a second, punctuated by the sound of rafa breathing, in, out. you almost close your eyes, listening to him figure you out. he still has problems with detecting deflection over the phone.  
  
"david," he says, finally. it's very grave, and just as earnest. he's laughing at you. "are you call because you want celebrate first evening off-season with me?"  
  
"thanks for the vote of confidence," you huff, rolling your eyes. "feel free to stop gloating any minute now."  
  
he doesn't, of course. you can practically hear his smile over the line.  
  
that's part one. "so i was thinking," you say.  
  
"maybe is not good idea, no?" rafa says, and that actually makes you pause, tug the phone away from your ear and glare in affront.  
  
"ha ha," you say, dryly. "maybe is not good idea to ask you to come home with me for awhile."  
  
"what?" rafa says.  
  
"what?" you echo.  
  
"your home? in kansas?"  
  
"that's the one i was thinking of, yeah."  
  
"but is far from mallorca--"  
  
"yes," you say, patiently. "so you should probably be ready for me to take over your guestroom for at least a week after that."  
  
"...ah," rafa says. he sounds pensive.  
  
"yeah," you say, as you rub your palms over your jeans. "we'll play some video games, sleep in late, throw out all the tennis rackets--"  
  
"go swimming at beach, eat too much--"  
  
"drink even more," you agree, already grinning because you know he is, can practically feel him vibrating from all the way over the phone. it's still a marvel, still catches you off-guard, sometimes, how you can be this close when you don't even speak each other's language all that well.  
  
"okay," he says. "when you fly?"  
  
"tomorrow morning," you say. he's already calculating, you both are, taking care of the whens and the how-tos.  
  
"okay," he repeats, sounding a little breathless this time, laughter and excitement both, if you had to hazard a guess, hair falling in his face as he ducks his head to hide it, the shyest world number one you know. there's a snick of warmth in your stomach at the picture, endearing in the strangest ways. "okay, i tell toni tomorrow i fly with you to kansas."  
  
"awesome," you say.  
  
"hmm," he says. "not like match with roger."  
  
"rafa."  
  
"david."  
  
"fine," you say, on a sigh. "yeah, it was pretty brutal."  
  
sure, yeah, it had been fucking amazing tennis, the kind that puts you to momentary shame with its overwhelming association of _i will never be as good as that, so what the hell am i doing here?_ and you'd still left rafa's box almost as soon as they'd gotten into the third set, retreated to your hotel room to watch the rest of it so you wouldn't be caught wincing on camera.  
  
rafa makes a noncommittal sound. "next year," he says. "i get more better."  
  
"yeah, i bet," you say, and the derision in your voice is just for you. "keep this up and there isn't going to be anything left for the rest of us to win, hotshot."  
  
rafa laughs, then, loud and surprised and real. you don't even try to fight your smile; it feels like winning a world tour final. his voice is low and warm when he says, "thank you for call, david. i see you at airport tomorrow."


End file.
